


Crimson Festival

by alasondria



Category: Phantasy Star Online 2
Genre: F/M, Luthaly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasondria/pseuds/alasondria
Summary: The Crimson Festival takes place every year just as spring emerges from its hibernation, to honour the sacrifices of their ancestors and pray for the eternal slumber of the Erythron Dragon.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Crimson Festival

The Crimson Festival takes place every year just as spring emerges from its hibernation, to honour the sacrifices of their ancestors and pray for the eternal slumber of the Erythron Dragon. Cuent becomes a paradise of colour with tapestries decorating the markets and merchants dotting all the corners of the cobblestone with their goods proudly displayed for the patrons of the festivities. A parade with Cuent’s most prestigious knights sails through the middle of town with citizens trying in earnest to catch every moment of it. Children clamber atop their parents’ shoulders to get the best view of their heroes and squeal in pure delight when they get a jovial handwave from one of the many iron-clad men and women.

“Someday that’ll be me!” A boy exclaims, puffing his chest out. A girl to his side screws her face up and replies.

“Knights have to be tall.”

Alasondria, who watched silently from the pavilion bearing the royal court, smiled at the children’s exchange. Adjacent to her was Valna, his hands locked firmly behind his back and an utterly stoic visage plastered on his face. She passed her attention to him, a slight frown creasing her lips. Despite the joyous occasion, Valna remained transfixed on the princess, his nerves always alight for something that never happened. It was an admirable trait—his stalwart alertness—but during a  _ national holiday _ , Alasondria thought, he could afford to loosen up. As this was her first festival and she was Verunian, she could not have been more out of place, and so she merely spectated, taking in the culture and traditions with a curious gaze. She withheld a sigh and moved her attention from the rigid adjutant, instead allowing her gaze to fall on the royals crowning the pavilion center.

Flanking His Majesty King Esmond, who sat atop a lavish replica of the palace’s throne, were his two children. At his left, Luther, who sat with one leg crossed over the other and an elbow propped against the armrest of his chair, his fingers curled loosely under his chin, had an expression that could only be read as profound boredom. On his right was Harriet, whose beaming smile was altogether radiant; her posture straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and her mood a palpable excitement. She did not hesitate to wave back to the knights and civilians with glee after her father did. Luther, however, settled for a  _ painfully  _ subtle tip of his head which earned him a glare from his little sister. Alasondria hid a laugh behind her hand, having realized that the prince no doubt wanted more than anything to retreat from the public eye to return to his research. However, suddenly his gaze was on her and a coy smile was tugging at his lips. Alasondria shook her head, gesturing towards the boisterous celebration before them afterwards.

_ I’m not helping you shirk your duties this time, _ she seemed to say.

For a fleeting moment Luther actually appeared to be offended by his aide’s dismissal but soon he was rolling his eyes and hoisting himself up from his seat. His father put a heavy hand on his shoulder before he could escape.

“Where might you be off to?”

“To enjoy the revelry,” Luther offered. “You  _ cannot  _ expect me to sit here all day do you?”

From behind his father he saw Harriet poke her head out, a smug look gracing her features.

“Let him flee, father,” she said. “He won’t get into trouble, I know that.”

The king glanced between his children, debating the veracity of both their words before he lifted his hand off Luther’s shoulder and instead clapped it heartily against his arm.

“Be courteous when you show her around,” Esmond said with a chuckle.

Luther shot his father a bewildered look.  _ Curse them both, _ he thought, a grimace tugging instantly at his mouth. To his relief, however, the woman in question had her attention fixed on the parade still pressing through the main road and thus she’d missed the embarrassing exchange. He smoothed his hair down with a quick swipe of his hand and shook his sleeves out, actively  _ ignoring _ the snickers behind him from his sister.

Wasting no time striding up to his aide, Luther took advantage of the grand and extraordinarily comical looking float bearing a mâché structure of the red dragon patrolling through the main road. It blotted out the audience’s visual on the pavilion, allowing him to slip his arm around her waist and draw her close to him. Alasondria made a noise of surprise, swearing the prince’s name.

He merely laughed, pulled her close to him, and craned his head to ask.

“Would you care to see more of the festival?”

Alasondria peered up at him with a slightly flustered look. However, her mouth soon pulled upwards into a smile.

She bowed her head and replied, an amused lilt in her voice. “That does sound wonderful.” 

Still under the cover of the massive sculpture, Luther brought his aide towards the stairway at the back end of the pavilion. Retracting his hand from her waist, he stepped passed her and offered it up instead for her to take. Alasondria cupped her cheek, a short laugh on her lips as she beheld the man’s exceptionally fairytale prince-like display, but she placed her gloved hand in his all the same, allowing him to guide her down the stairs as if she were his princess. Although his actions were of good intent, it was still another stark reminder that she was little more than a commoner from Verun lost in the royal blue and gold of Cuent’s court and though she tried desperately to hide the melancholy look that struck her, the flicker of her expression was not lost on Luther. He felt a sudden pang of guilt, having become plainly aware of what he asked of his aide. She was not Cuentian. This festivity, though enjoyable to any outsider, meant nothing to her. While this was just another traipse through the usual pomp and circumstance for him, it was a whole new world to her and no matter what title he bestowed on her, no matter how much she mattered to him, to Harriet, to the king, to the people, she was still a foreigner.

Whatever customs, whatever traditions or holidays the people of Cuent were so finely in tune with fell deaf on her ears. Not out of ignorance, for Alasondria had submerged herself as thoroughly in the culture of Cuent as one not born from its blood could, but rather out of the sheer fact that these ancient traditions—forged hundreds of years ago—could never have been known to her. Alasondria had customs of her own; in that land now scarred and desolate and ruled by a tyrant. Verun once celebrated, drank, and feasted in the names of its heroes. Did she miss those? Luther wondered. What legends did Verun tell? Who were  _ their  _ saviors?  _ Their _ guardians?

Luther had been so preoccupied with trying to make his aide feel welcome and embraced in the royal court he had not stopped to think of how she would feel immersed in the nation itself beyond its political world. The dawning of yet another failure brought on by his poor judgement soured him immediately and he wished, more than ever before, to steal away back to his study and hole himself up until the celebrations concluded.

_ A fool, through and through. Trying to play the part of a chivalrous prince. _

But suddenly he felt Alasondria’s free hand touching his arm, her smile returned.

“Weren’t you going to show me around?”

Luther struggled to find the right words, his mouth a thin line as he grappled with himself. An apology for his thoughtlessness was necessary, that he knew, but right now he had a chance to salvage the situation by giving her a Crimson Festival to remember. It was the very least he could do.

“Indeed I was. Shall we be off, my dear?”

  
And so they descended the pavilion together, sharing a brief reprieve away from the gimlet-eyed civilians of Cuent by taking a hidden garden path that led back to the city center. They walked aimlessly, their hands finding each other’s and twining together as they laughed under the canopy of the overhanging trees. Languid was their stroll and long their talks; they took the winding routes to forego returning to the cacophonous celebrations just a little while longer. A single moment to be themselves, no fronting for court officials, no tongues bitten, and no standing on ceremony. They were not the first prince of Cuent and his royal aide, they were Luther and Alasondria. Fleeting as it was they still enjoyed this singular moment free from the nation’s focused attention. When they emerged from the garden’s shelter they found themselves at the heart of the capital’s market. The merchants, who were far too preoccupied with their sale pitches and deal-hollering, failed to notice the prince and his aide meander past their stalls. But one individual took notice of the royal pair and joyously motioned them over to his stall. Alasondria looked to Luther with a beaming smile and guided him over—however the prince’s brow remained quirked as he beheld the strange man.

The man’s hair was dark and long and tied up in a loose braid draped over his shoulder. He bowed to the two and spoke softly. “It’s an honour to see His Majesty and his aide enjoying our festivities. But I’m curious as to how the two of you managed to escape without a royal entourage.”

At this he glanced at Alasondria with a half-smile.

“Fault not my aide, ‘tis all my doing.” Luther said dramatically. “She seemed so bored up on that pavilion.”

“Luther,” Alasondria scrunched her nose up.

“Ah,” the prince brought a hand up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I discerned her wordless plea for help incorrectly…”

_ “Luther.” _

“Yes, yes, alright. The truth comes out; I wanted to steal her away and enjoy the festivities together.”

Alasondria blinked up at her prince, her cheeks blooming scarlet.  _ Must he be so forward about it…?! _

The man in front of them laughed heartily and clapped. “Never would I assume His Majesty to be so forthright, but then again one must be when they’re royalty, no? Especially so with the woman you’re pursuing.”

Alasondria practically jumped out of her skin.  _ “E-excuse me?” _

“No need to be embarrassed, miss, I think it’s a beautiful thing.”

Luther cleared his throat loudly, his eyes glaring holes into the man.

“But I know when to hold my tongue! Pardon me for overstepping. What I intended to sell to you two was no material item or food. No, I mean to offer my services as a bard!” And in a whirlwind of swift motions, the man pulled a lute out from under his stall and fastened it across his chest with a thin leather strap, his hands already set to play. Luther furrowed both brows, squinting skeptically at the bard.

“What will it cost?”

“Your high spirits,” the bard shot back good-naturedly.

Luther’s eyes narrowed further until he felt a subtle tightening of the grip on his hand. He turned his attention to Alasondria and noticed her pinched brows. She looked nervous—uncomfortable.

_ Out of place. _

Suddenly Luther replied to the bard. “Do you know any songs outside of Cuent’s repertoire?”

“Outside of Cuent’s repertoire, hm… why, I believe I know at least one Epicean hymn… one Es-Arsean ballad… ah, and a handful of Verunian jigs!”

Alasondria’s ears perked up and she looked to the bard with wide eyes. Luther’s lips quirked into a lopsided smile, a warmth blossoming in his chest upon noticing his aide’s immediate enthusiasm.

“Why don’t you give us the most jovial of those jigs?” Luther turned to Alasondria and took hold of her other hand, bringing it up. “While we provide the high spirits.”

“Luther?” Alasondria asked low. He drew her closer into him and craned his head to peer at her, a smile still pulling easily at his lips.

“Do you trust me?”

“With all my heart.”

“Then follow my lead. It’ll be fine.”

Carefully Luther adjusted their positions to be in that of a classical waltz pose, which no doubt perplexed aide and bard alike. However, his gaze remained transfixed on Alasondria and his smile never faltered. Alasondria, in turn, could not stop the corners of her lips from quirking upwards. She smiled openly at her prince in response and gave a short nod.

As soon as the bard began playing Luther took Alasondria along for a whimsical, aimless dance, despite having previously set them in waltz position. The tune was, as advertised, a jig—it was energetic, merry, and full of a rhythm that did not spark familiarity in Luther but that had clearly set a fire alight in his aide. Alasondria broke into laughter, her eyes crinkling and her nose scrunching and it had thoroughly  _ winded _ Luther seeing her unbridled joy. It was a celebration of all that made her who she was; a Verunian who had rooted her heart in Cuent and all the pride he felt in her came surging forward and it was suddenly as if his limbs had minds of their own. Boldly, Luther braced her against himself and swept her along the cobblestone, twirling their bodies together in a grand flourish. Alasondria made a startled noise that quickly dissolved into more laughter as she let him spin her down the market’s lane. The bard followed in pursuit of them, kicking his heels up and ensnaring the attention of the other merchants. They flocked to the dancing royal pair, cheering and clapping. It wasn’t long after until a circle formed around the prince and his aide and the clapping became more in sync with the tune, adding a beat that made the energy in the air swell. It was loud and infectious and all the  _ festivities _ Luther so usually abhorred but he had his aide in his arms and her unabashed laughter drowning out the music and even though there was a throng of merchants and citizens encircling them he only saw  _ her _ —it mattered not that nearly the whole of Cuent had swarmed them; Luther only saw Alasondria.

It isn’t long, however, until the bard’s playing begins to fade away and the couple is snapped out of their reverie. Blinking up at each other, Alasondria is the first to break into a fit of giggles and fling herself into Luther’s embrace. Luther meanwhile does not hesitate to wrap his arms around her shoulders and bury his nose into her hair, stifling a chuckle as he does. The display garnered a few  _ aw’s _ and  _ ooh’s  _ from the crowd but the bard was quick to strum a chord on his lute and wave it around broadly afterwards, proclaiming to the circle. “Afford your prince a bit of privacy, won’t you? Go on then, more festivities await you! Go on, go on!”

Luther pivoted on his heel with his aide still in his arms, raising a brow as he looked back at the gathering. For a mercy, the crowd dispersed without complaint, leaving the lane in good spirits to discuss the impromptu performance they’d been given.

Alasondria promptly untangled herself from Luther and slipped her hand into his, pulling him eagerly along towards the bard. Luther allowed her to lead him, a smirk already forming on his lips. The bard turned back to greet the two with a tip of his invisible hat.

“Thank you,” Alasondria said. “That was _Nostgaul_ , was it not?”

_‘Nostalgia.’_ _Apt choice._

“Indeed it was!” The bard replied merrily. “Picked it up from my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“Verunian woman, strong and proud.”

“ _ You  _ are Verunian as well?!”

“Haha!” The bard laughed boisterously. “Indeed I am! Verunian mother, Cuentian father. Though she came here before the castles moved in. Father says she won his heart the moment he set his eyes on her and he  _ begged  _ her to move to Cuent with him.”

At this the bard looked pointedly at Luther. Luther scowled in response. Alasondria, however, was ignorant of the exchange and continued full speed ahead in her conversation with the bard.

“If it isn’t too much trouble, could I ask for some notes, any at all, on these songs?”

“Fixing to learn them, miss?”

“I am no musician,” Alasondria lamented. “But I would love to have them, for the sake of it. It’s difficult to come by pieces of home here.”

_ Pieces of home. _

Luther tried earnestly to ignore the way a cold rush shocked his skin hearing that.

“Apologies,” the bard began. “I’m afraid I keep no notes or sheets. It’s all up here,” at this he tapped his head twice.

“Oh, I see…” Alasondria’s face fell though it was quick to light up again. “Well I was able to hear  _ Nostgaul  _ once more and that’s plenty. Thank you again, truly.”

“It was my pleasure, miss.” The bard tipped his head to her and then to Luther. “Your majesty.”

Luther gave a brief nod to the bard absently and turned to leave, his hand clinging loosely to his aide’s. Alasondria was quick to catch on to her prince’s subtle shift in disposition. 

“Are you alright?” She asked when they were far enough from the bustle of the festival once more.

“Quite,” Luther said, voice far away. 

“No you are not.” Alasondria countered.

She released his hand and intercepted him, standing in the way of him with her hands on her hips.

“Alasondria,” he said with a slight laugh. “I am fine.”

“You didn’t even give that man a proper farewell.”

“Have I ever been a paragon of etiquette?”

Luther watched his aide puff a cheek out and furrow her brows at his stubbornness and he can’t help the lazy grin that breaks out on his face seeing her pout.

“Please be honest,” Alasondria said with a frown. “Clearly there is something on your mind.”

The prince is silent for a moment as he regards his aide, her eyes locked with his. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Let’s return to the study.”

* * *

As the festival unwinds, some merchants have already packed their stalls up and some have begun to deconstruct floats. Luther and Alasondria’s return to the pavilion is met with Valna greeting them with a brisk salute before informing them that the king and Harriet awaited them in the carriage, at Lady Harriet’s insistence.

The sun was setting and the amber hue of it was flooding his study in a warm glow when Luther opened the door and allowed his aide in. He entered after her and she was quick to place her hands on his shoulders and begin nudging his coat off; he complied with a soft chuckle, raising his arms to allow her to free him from his sleeves. Alasondria tucked his coat carefully under her arm and disappeared behind the opening in his bookcases. Luther took the opportunity to seat himself at his desk and lean back, closing his eyes with a deep inhale. He felt himself nodding off when the shrill whistle of their kettle ripped him from his bout of drowsiness. He blinked hard and saw Alasondria standing before him suddenly, a platter of tea in her hands, her sash and gloves discarded and her robe loose around her frame.

“Trying to butter me up?”

“Is it working?” Alasondria asked with a smile, offering the platter. Luther took his cup from it, eyeing her as he did.

“It might be.”

Her smile widened a touch and she took her seat across from him, setting the tray off to the side on his desk in the scarce space it was  _ not _ cluttered.

“Hopefully enough to get you to talk,” she added before taking a sip of her tea. Luther loosed a sigh into his cup.

“I do owe you an apology.”

Alasondria stared at him, concern evident on her face. “What in Cuent’s name are you talking about?”

“The festival. Or rather—everything. I threw you into cultures and norms still so profoundly unfamiliar to you. It was unfair to you and careless of me.”

_ Stupid of me. _

“Luther,” Alasondria’s tone is already incredulous but he continued before she could interject further.

“I believed I could salvage it with that display at the bard’s stall. I was glad to see you smile. But when you mentioned that you had so few pieces of home, it only served to remind me that I have taken you from it.”

Alasondria’s seat made a discordant sound against the floor as she promptly pushed herself from it. Luther’s eyes are focused only on her, his brows pinched as he beholds his aide glaring at him with what seemed to be, for the first time since he had known her, a look of genuine anger directed at him.

“Why do you insist that I was upset with you for what you did at the festival? And what is all this about 'taking' me from my home?"

Luther remained still, his mouth a taut line. He felt unsure of what to say—if  _ anything  _ at all could be said in this moment. He hadn't wanted to further worsen her mood by blurting something else equally oblivious and so he allowed the silence to widen. His aide seemed to catch on and her anger was quick to dissipate; she knew he meant no ill-will, in neither his actions nor his words. He was simply confused. Things were always black or white with Luther. He tried, he made an error, and it upset Alasondria. Therefore, he was reprehensible; that’s how the prince configured things in his head. Where he extended sympathy and leniency to everyone else, he condemned himself. She knew he struggled to let himself be human. But that was why she was here.

Alasondria exhaled. "I was happy.  _ So _ happy. There was no need to ask that bard what he knew to play but you did regardless."

The prince moved his cup aside, frowning deeply. "You looked… uncomfortable. All throughout the festival it seemed like you were fighting to stay afloat."

Alasondria laughed softly. "Was I that transparent?"

"It was partially my fault, was it not?”

His aide gave a light huff. “You keep blaming yourself and I’m still not sure why. When you say you ‘took’ me from my home,” at this she walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her cheek on his shoulder before she continued. “You forget that you rescued me from certain death. When you say you’ve been unfair to me, you forget that you have spoiled me rotten.”

Luther leaned back in his seat and inhaled again, reveling in the way his aide’s touch chased away his uncertainty.

_ This is how it always is. She pulls me out of the tide, time and again. _

“The only person you have been unfair to is yourself, love,” she began again, lifting her head back up. “Yes, I did mention missing my old home. But my old home has burned away in the flames of war. I cannot return to it and I would never dream to because I have this lovely new home, in this lovely little study with bookcases for walls and a dashing prince as its keeper.”

Luther turned his head and found Alasondria looking right at him, her lips quirking into a smile instantly. He pressed his forehead to hers and let an amused, contented chuckle escape him. “I wonder how many times you’ve undone my logic by now.”

“One’s logic may be flawed, but that’s not to say it can’t be gently guided in the right direction.”

“I fear my logic may always have to be gently guided, then.” Luther muttered.

“Then I shall endeavour to always be there to do so,” Alasondria said. “After all, someone has to remind you to be kinder to yourself.”

Luther allowed a snicker to skirt through him as he drew a hand up and carded it through her hair idly.

“I am a better man indeed because of you.”

“Oh, you were always a fine man,” Alasondria swiftly supplied. Luther lofted a brow at her. Alasondria tipped her head and gave him a cheeky smile. Luther took the opportunity to close the distance between them, Alasondria giggling into the kiss.

She did not miss the low hum in Luther’s throat, nor did she miss the _ ‘thank you,’  _ he whispered against her cheek when they parted.

_ I eagerly await the next festival. _

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is very special to me, so i hope you enjoyed it! the crimson festival is a longstanding headcanon i've had for a while, i've always wanted to see more culture and traditions from the nations of omega and was pretty bummed EP5 lacked on that front
> 
> also a little fun fact: 'nostgaul' is actually an omegan word from the dictionary that came with the EP5 soundtrack (and it does directly translate to 'nostalgia' from the japanese definition!)


End file.
